Peter's First Cuckold

Peter pressed his knee into the backdoor, then his shoulder, then his hip before the warped jammed door gave way, opening to a musky mildew smell present ever since he'd rented the place nine months after his divorce. He'd come in from a vaporously hot starry August night, from a date, a first date with Celeste, who he'd met on a chat line a week before. As he'd said goodbye she leaned over from her passenger seat, kissed him on the cheek, reached between his legs and squeezed.

He'd flinched.

"I've been wanting to do that all night." She cooed. "Kiss me."

They kissed. And while her kiss was silky and slow, her hands were persistent and determined. She took him out, right there in the front seat, and started stroking. She stopped their kiss to watch herself with amused wonder; three fingers firmly wrapped around his swelling member, going up and down as if she were husking a piece of corn until, with a sharpe hoarse grunt, Peter spurted. She lifted her hand to her mouth and licked his cum from the back of her fingers.

"What a mess you made." she said, exhaling the words dramatically as she backed out of his car never losing eye contact. "See you soon."

Peter arrived home in a daze, his mood a sated blue but tinged with bright fluorescent pinks.

They met again on Monday evening. She'd been blonde on their first date, but had dyed her hair black before their second saying she wanted to "start fresh." He had no idea what she meant.

That night, after a brief dinner at a local diner, they returned to her small apartment and spent the rest of the night in her small bed making love.

Sex quieted Celeste. At dinner she had talked non-stop, giggled at her own jokes, told endless stories about her past, recalling specific details which triggered more memories and more details which poured out of her like a rush of water. Though he wasn't the quiet type, Peter hardly spoke.

When they kissed a sensuality inhabited Celeste, as if the energy of her words, surged into her fingers and pelvis, lifting her physically with a quiet, feminine urgency. She changed. Yet her body was frail, injured. She had a thick scar on the back of her neck, a slumping posture that coiled in upon her, almost as if she'd been whipped and a scar on her belly which Peter mistook as the result of a caesarean delivery.

Despite her wounds her pale skin had the freshness of a childs, a downy feel that was illuminated by a low electricity that disoriented Peter, took the logic from him. At one point that evening, after he'd rolled off of her, she rolled over and lifted her round pale bottom and turned to watch him as he watched her. Peter inhaled. His eyes lingered over her twin moons, mesmerized by the small slope that ran up from her lower back. He sensed experience in their slumberous stillness, a ripeness, that even at 40 sweetened her, lifted her femininity higher than it could have ever been in the bold hardness of her youth.

"Ah, what a beautiful ass you have Celeste." He said running the tips of his fingers between the hills.

Silent, she smiled at him.

Peter kissed her. She kissed with a patience that was reverential, holy, while the rest of her, in her fluorescent nakedness, slithered warmly against him as if maximum contact was true communion, as if she knew she could teach him how to love her with her hips, her breasts and her fingers.

That night, as they stood in the doorway before he departed he noticed Celeste's eyes for the first time. She had watery, pleading blue eyes and she made constant eye contact that left him uneasy. He looked away.

"Do you love me?" She asked.

"It's just our second date," he said looking up at her to find her eyes peering insistently into his.

He felt invaded as if she thought she find, on the surface of his retinas, the answer to her question. He looked away.

"I guess you'll never love me,' she said taking the door by the nob and with her other hand gently pushing him out the door. "You can't even look me in the eyes. You probably have ten other woman."

Peter cringed in disbelief. Aside from her avalanche of words at dinner their evening together had been glorious. How could she ruin such loveliness?

"I don't have other women." He said simply.

"We'll see," She responded sharply pushing him out the door and closing it quickly.

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The first time Peter took her to meet his parents, as they stood at their front door, she got up on her toes and whispered in his ear "Don't tell your mother that I'm a nymphomaniac."

His mother frowned the whole evening and later in a phone conversation with Peter said, "I think she needs dental work and probably has several sailor tattoos. Not the kind of girl I imagine making you happy and you know, I'm your mother. I know these things." Since he was a teen, his mothers relationship with the "other," women in his life worked like this: The more Peter desired a woman the more his mother disliked her. He was convinced his mother had adored his first wife mostly because she knew Peter never really desired her. For Peters part, he could only "love" a women if he had no immense desire to fuck her, in such a way Peter was bound to marry women he couldn't have sex with and fuck woman he couldn't love.

He could fuck Celeste. She could illuminate his desire quicker than any woman he'd ever been with.

After a date not long after they'd met she'd squatted in front of his car headlights in her parking lot and pulled her shorts down mooning him, her pale white bottom shimmering like the moon on a still pond. She couldn't depart without a dramatic gesture.

Once, in a voicemail she left him at noon, she ordered him to go home, undress, get into bed and leave his front door unlocked.

"When you hear me come in, close your eyes and keep them closed until you hear me leave."

She entered his apartment wordlessly, took out his cock and stroked him to the edge, and with just the tip of his cockhead in her mouth, swallowed his entire violent orgasm. She left without a word and wouldn't answer his calls that day.

Mercurial as a cloud formation, Celeste changed apartments once every six months, changed her hair color monthly, and her mood hourly. She picked wild flowers, took pictures of sidewalk cracks, had a small collection of large dead bugs, each of whom had a name, and she brought Peter stones that were oddly shaped. " I found that outside the laundry room. Isn't it amazing?"

She loved Peter's cock, or loved handling his cock, and did so brazenly, in public, in broad daylight, on the street, and of course at night when they walked together on the streets not far from the river, where she'd stop and press him against a street lamp and stroke him into an erection. When they were home, in bed, she handled him with such a nuanced combination of finger flicking, stroking, building up, backing off, tight then loose grips that she touched him, he thought, as if she were playing an instrument, improvising as she went, to a music within her. She'd bring him to the edge, then stop and look silently, circle his opening with her tongue, take him all the way to the base of his 6" inch girth, stop and say,

"You're softening. Maybe I should stop?"

Celeste's veneration for his member raised his spirit. His erections arose quickly. His stamina seemed to double. He hadn't felt so alive in years. When he left the small bedroom of her small run down apartment, he left with the sense that she was searching for the root of his sex, that she was, on a quest, that she found his hesitancy full of falseness, that she wanted his straight best clean shot, as if she was saying, "silly boy, just fuck me, pin me down and keep me there- that's the way to quiet me, if you must have me quiet." She needed all of him, all of his weight.

But what she needed most, was to be the only woman he could see. But he could never sustain the eye contact she seemed to need. He'd always break it off. She'd always accuse him of having another woman in mind.

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And so, despite their rapturous inimitable mystical sexual connection, it became clear to Peter, after three months, that the relationship was not sustainable; Celeste was inconsolably, remorselessly, intensely, publicly, pathologically; jealous.

When Peter was at work, he'd get texts from her, "Are you making eyes at all the women you work with? Do you think they suck cock better than me?

If they were at a coffee shop and there happened to be a moderately attractive woman who he walked past on the way to the bathroom she'd bring it up.

"I saw how you went out of your way to walk right past her."

In fairness, given Peter's long history of promiscuity, a fact he never should have shared, her suspicions and accusations had some merit. Peter knew this. He knew he evaluated every woman he encountered through a complex personal formula he could have never elaborated. He knew, when he scanned a room of women, who he might work, who was likely available, and who he knew he'd want to get a better look at later, even if they never spoke. For Peter women were objects. Objects of reverence in a way, but objects. This was central to who he was and yet he'd developed the capacity to unscrew his cock, to put his hands in his pockets, to be somewhere else on the surface, to bury this truth under a shy hesitant good boy exterior.

He tried to adapt to Celestes jealousy. But it swallowed him. He raged at her at time and then blamed himself. She had him. He figured he could keep his head down, his eyes on the floor, as if he had blinkers on and eventually she'd come to trust him. But over the first three months of their relationship nothing of the sort came about. Things got worse. Time after time, relentlessly. She went back to the same theme.

"You want other woman." She'd say.

"I want you. I've never wanted another woman like I want you. I love how you touch me, how you make me want to touch you." He'd respond, full of truth.

"Then why'd you have lunch with Caroline two weeks ago?"

"She's a friend from graduate school. I've known her for five years. She has a boyfriend." He pleaded, but it was useless.

Still, Peter hung on. Sex was the drug, her jealousy, he reasoned, was the cost. He'd been with a lot of duds, and a few firecrackers but Celeste was a slow-burning, pyrotechnic star that left him contained in a capsule of glittering sparks that sizzled for days. She burned his veins.

They would have been better off as wordless mutes. "Quiet me with your cock," she'd once whispered, which made him laugh. And she was quiet when they fucked. But once out of bed she was full of words, full of endless illogical assumptions about him, full of suspicions and accusations, and full of an ever ready contempt for any sign that he enjoyed his life apart from her.

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One day it dawned on Peter that her jealousy was a projection, that she saw in him the ease with which she could slip into another man's arms. Looking back he realized how easily she'd cast him off. A week after they'd met, he'd had a dinner planned with his graduate school friend. Celeste called him as he was leaving and started talking endlessly as she did until he had to remind her, he needed to leave. He felt the air go out of her voice. Nearly silent, he said good bye twice before he heard a mouselike "bye," come from the other end of the phone. Worried, he'd called her the moment his date ended but she didn't answer. Later that week he'd learn she'd got on the chat line and hooked up with a guy and met him at a restaurant that night. Who knows what else she did? When they split after a fight she was quick to find another man. Four days after a break up two months into their relationship Peter stopped by her place and another man answered the door in a bathrobe and his underwear. She'd cheated on her husband of twelve years, a cripple confined to a wheelchair, numerous times, with numerous men. Her list of sexual partners, which she'd confessed in a moment of eye contactless honesty, was nearly as long as his.

This revelation, this awareness of Celeste's infidelity, and her quick, if not careless ease at hooking up with other men stirred up a beloved erotic fantasy of Peters. For years he had dreamed of a dominant woman, a woman he desired and cared for, having sexual intercourse with another man in front of him while she denied him. Peter wanted to be a cuckold. Celeste, he felt sure would do it.

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In early December, after another breakup he met her for lunch on a warm Saturday afternoon. He had written out a cuckold scenario folded it up and placed it in a card he'd written apologizing for the fight (over his stopping by his to ex-wife's house to feed her cats.)

At lunch he hesitated to give her the card. He knew his scenario was indecent, and was, at it's core, false. He didn't deserve to be punished. He didn't deserve to be cuckolded. But he was pretty sure Celeste would easily think he absolutely deserved to be punished, to be cuckolded.

Before she got into her car he handed her the envelop. In it he'd asked her not to respond until she decided if she wanted to "do it."

He called her the next day, Sunday. He took dinner over, but she kicked him out after they'd finished eating refusing to talk about his note. Peter called her again on Monday but she didn't answer. He bit his fingernail, paced in a square around his office, distracted himself with his client schedule but everything he tried seemed small and insignificant.

On Tuesday, around 3pm while with a customer he heard his phone ring twice. When he checked his messages he heard Celeste voice: "I'm gonna be on-line tonight looking for a new lover. I'm tired of you and your other women. I need a real man who wants just me."

It was on.

Early that night, Peter got on the chat line. Celestes greeting, one of the first he heard, meant she'd been on the line for a while, and beckoned with a girl next door like invitation: "Hello. Come say hi. I'm looking for a real man- I want to meet tonight."

Peter trembled, his blood raced, he had to respond but his voice cracked and went thin. He had to re-record his response.

. "Ah... Mistress, please consider meeting me." He said just above a whisper.

Ten long minutes later she replied.

"I want a real man tonight. I'm tired of you and your other women. And guess what? I already have lots of offers." Her voice was decisive, rock-ribbed, perfectly attuned to the submissive boy locked in the basement of his heart. She had the key.

Peter begged forgiveness, for a second chance.

She responded quickly this time.

"Will you change?"

"Yes. Tell me what you expect?" He pleaded.

"No. You tell me why I should I give you a second chance when I have so many other men who I could get a fresh start with?"

"Because I adore you. Because you keep my eyes on you, because I change everyday. You just don't see it Mistress. I think of no one but you."

"I see what I see Peter. I see you. You're not mine. You'll never be mine. Never." She responded.

Her words were true. But tonight he could be all hers. He felt that. It consumed him. He was kneeling, she was his queen, yes they were in a funhouse, an erotic playground, but she was everything. His zeal possessed a desperation. Her messages melted him into a small deep white pool of submission. He was on the floor promising everything. He said his cock was hers. Said he'd put it in a cage. Said he'd never ever orgasm unless she gave him permission. From that moment she'd rule his sight, he'd see only what she wished him to see, as if he were her horse and she'd fitted him with blinkers. He sought no finality. He wasn't masturbating in fact, his cock wasn't hard but he was present, and he was out of his head, his body had him, she'd given him his body, he quivered as if it was inundated with the light of jewels.

After his rant she didn't respond for 20 minutes-which left Peter sure she was sending messages to other men or talking live with them.

When she did respond again she completely ignored his last lengthy response which he'd thought brilliantly seductive.

"I'm about to go meet this guy alone. He's serious and a nice guy."

"Yes Mistress. Do you want me to get us a hotel room?" He responded

For thirty minutes she didn't respond. It was too long. The wait caused Peter to fall out of his reverie and stamp the floor of his mildew scented apartment. She wasn't playing the game right. He grew irritated and typed a message he never sent, "if you're not gonna respond to me what's the point?"

Moments later her response came.

"I'm meeting a guy in thirty minutes. Find a hotel in Berkshire, text me the name and room number. I'll be there when I'll be there."

He gulped. It was on. He was about to be cuckolded.

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It happened. That evening Peter became a cuckold. He had his first cuckold experience and it was transcendent. He reached a higher plane. Nearly everything he'd written to her in his note, Celeste brought to life. She'd taken it the whole way. He'd watched another man lick her to orgasm, watched her tantalize and tease his cock to the edge, watched him mount her and cum in a roaring violent orgasm. After it was over he'd watched them kiss tenderly and lay quietly as if they were a couple.

As her guest went to leave she hugged him, pecked him on the lips and squeezed his cock through his pants as she often did with Peter.

Halfway out the door he whispered, "When will I see you again?"

She smiled back at him, "soon, I hope."

Later the next day he reminded himself that he could never love Celeste, never live with her, never marry and settle with her. They could share moments but their relationship couldn't tolerate her need to own him, to dominate his consciousness and to punish him when he broke contact. He couldn't really submit. No. That wasn't him. The dominant woman existed in his mind. The cuckoldress was a muse, an Oracle he'd invite when he could. He had no use for her in real life. He'd never ever offer his life, offer it in real union to a woman with that kind of insecurity.

Three days later he received a lengthy email from an ex lover who'd just been divorced. His affair with her had been short lived but she intrigued him. She was a good girl who liked to fuck. He called her and they made plans for dinner. That night he jacked off to memories of his cuckold adventure with Celeste. The memory made him sizzle.